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       In one of the most lovely parts of Spain, on a road skirting the edge of the wood, journeyed a lady and gentleman and little child. Contrary to custom they were traveling unattended, for in these mountain fastnesses there dwelt a band of robbers who lived in the caverns, and concealed in its deep recesses, safe from pursuit by the intricate roads leading to them, and even then only known to the initiated, issued out unexpectedly on the unwary traveller, and robbed him mercilessly of everything valuable. If he had plenty of cash with him and did not resist, he was sometimes permitted to go after his pockets had been thoroughly cleaned out but if he fought for his life he generally lost it, and, worse fate sometimes still, he was, if known to be very wealthy, carried off to the mountain fastnesses, and there kept in suffering and terror until large sums of money were paid as ransom. Therefore travellers were generally accompanied by an armed escort, and it was a rare sight to see a carriage alone with only a couple of inmates driving over this lonely road. The explanation of the matter was due to the fact that the gentleman, an officer in the army, had almost outstayed his leave of absence, and was hurrying on to join his regiment, and so, despite the entreaties of his wife, he would not delay for the diligence with its guard, but trusting to the humble appearance of his vehicle (his valuables being in great part left to follow him), he started on his way, from which, alas! he should never return.

       For a time all went well. The weather was glorious, it was the springtime of the year when bud and blossom were bursting into bloom; the note of the wild birds as they answered each other on this mountain height, the rippling sound of running water in this vast solitude, all combined to form a delightful adjunct to the pleasure of swift driving over a soft turf road, and the countess was just beginning to feel that perhaps they might after all reach the town of M—–, now not many miles distant, when little Carlos, about seven years of age, clapped his hands in childish glee, as he called out to his father to look at the two splendidly dressed gentlemen coming towards them on prancing steeds. When alas! all was changed. "Ah! me," cried the countess frantically, though with a low voice, to her husband "Here are the bandits. Oh! my husband, offer no resistance, I beseech you, to these fearful men; give them all, promise them anything, what matters what we lose if only I retain dear little Carlos and yourself." "My Mercedes," he answered, "have faith in our horses and myself. I will feign to give in, then, while they dismount to rob us, a sharp cut of the whip will send our steeds flying, and before they can overtake us will be met by the guards stationed about here every few miles, and who at the sound of shots will come to our assistance. In vain his wife remonstrated, he would not be convinced, and as these men in their gorgeous dress (pickings from many a rich signor) approached, the count prepared to act out the plan he had spoken of. At the cry to halt he did so instantly, but at the moment each dismounted he gave a slashing cut to the horses, who started off full speed, to be stopped in a moment, however, by the ringing shots fired simultaneously at the count and the horses, who fell dead almost instantly, and in the death struggle of the horses the carriage went over a slight precipice, and Countess Z—– fell out in a dead faint, though otherwise unhurt, while the little boy, terrified to silence, clung to the curtain of the chaise. The robbers had but time to collect their booty when shouts in the distance and an advancing cavalcade proclaimed the advent of the guard, summoned by the noise of the shots; but on arrival no traces of the men or the little boy could be seen, only the form of the Countess lying on the green sward beneath. Their pursuit was was vain. All that could be done was to raise the form of the unhappy lady and carry her where medical aid could be obtained at M—–. They knew nothing of the loss of the child for weeks, for the fright and shock had brought on brain fever, and when she recovered it was to find herself bereft of husband and child, and rendered so weak she could do little to unravel the secret of her child's disappearance.

       And now let us see what became of poor little Carlos. Terrified to death he was almost insensible when snatched up by one of the robbers, who leaped on his horse and galloped off in haste to escape arrest through the bridal path in the mazes of a thick wood, the road doubling here and there and intersected by cross roads to avoid detection. The rapid motion and cool evening air caused our poor little hero to fall into a deep slumber, out of which he was roused by the rapid talk in a loud foreign tongue of excited men gloating over the proceeds of their theft from the count. Fortunately amazement kept him dumb for awhile and fear paralyzed speech, for he lay (unnoticed by the majority) on a bed of rich rugs piled in the corner of the large cavern, which was the home of the band, and it was not by any means an uncomfortable home. A huge, lofty cavern, one chamber leading into another to the number of four or five; rich carpets on the ground, vessels of silver and gold, in profusion, a table spread with fine wines and provisions, all spoils from the unfortunates who had been their victims. At last the gang dispersed, and one Pietro, a rather mild-looking man, came up to the terrified child, and, bringing him some milk, cake and fruit, in soothing words bade him not to be afraid, but eat and he would take care of him, that is if he did not annoy the others by cries and useless complaints. He then went out, assembled the gang and made this proposition, that he should give them his share of the booty, and they in return let him have the little boy as his child. He said he was getting in ill-health, and wanted some one to wait upon him. The men laughed, said they much preferred his share of the money to a bothersome brat like that. So Pietro returned triumphant to Carlos, and devoted himself to making the child happy and contented. It was a difficult task, but fear as well as kindness combined to produce an outward seeming of acquiescence in his lot, and, except for the absence of his beloved parents, Carlos might indeed have been happy, for Pietro had a room to himself when Carlos lived with him, seeing very little of the others; and as Pietro from that time alleged incapacity from ill-health to go on outside expeditions he was permitted to stay at home, and thus Carlos had many happy hours with pet rabbits and tame birds given, and feeding the goats and poultry, of which the gang had quite a store.

       And now, to explain how Pietro seemed so different to the others, we must state he too had been stolen as a very young child, and had never been able to leave a life he detested. But he had determined to save Carlos from a similar fate, though his rapidly failing health warned him that there was no time to lose. So he pondered daily how he could accomplish it, and this was the plan he hit upon: He daily took the boy for a walk to the most direct outlet of the forest into the main road till assured the child could find his way alone, and then when they were quite alone one day he told him he feared that he would not live long, and that the only chance of his ever seeing his parents again was to follow his directions implicitly, and these were that when he himself was dying, and the robbers' attention was drawn to the dying man, to take the little accordion he could play on nicely, and a small bundle, put in a bag ready to be slung on his shoulders, containing the dress he wore when captured, and some food, and without waiting for even good-bye to dart into the forest and never cease running till he got into the forest road, and walk on as near the city as his strength would permit, hiding, if obliged to rest, in the hollow of some tree or rock, and when he reached the town of M—– to play his accordion at the house doors or in the street till he saw some guard or kind-looking person to whom he could tell his story and ask to be conducted to his grandfather's palace, which was situated in the town of M—–.

       "I will bid you good-bye now, dear little Carlos," said the dying man; "You will pray for me sometimes, that God may forgive me the ill I have done and take me to himself." At last with sobs and thanks poor little Carlos received and promised to follow these directions, and it was agreed that when Pietro lifted up his hand and pointed towards heaven, Carlos was to start without a moment's delay, for then Pietro would know he was dying and no time was to be lost. A few days after, just as the robbers were resting after their midday meal and seeking coolness from the heat of a sultry afternoon, Pietro made him the sign and pointed to a tree where his little bag was concealed. Fear lent wings to his feet, as he thought what would be his lot after his patron's death, and the hope of seeing his dear parents again urged him on so swiftly that before his absence was remarked he had already gained the high road, when a countryman going in with milk to a farm house a couple of miles outside of the city offered him a lift part of the way. So after an hour's rest, some food and a liberal cup of milk he was so refreshed he found himself actually at the suburbs of the city just as night was falling; but he did not rest, mindful of what Pietro told him, that he must get on to the grand part of M—–, where the houses of the nobility were. So he trudged on and on till, quite exhausted, he lay down on the steps of a splendid mansion and there fell fast asleep.

       It was a lovely evening in M—–, a fine moon shed a soft radiance on the handsome antique buildings, and with its mellow rays softened the ravages of time on many of the ancient houses. In one of the grandest of the palaces belonging to a very old family sat a party of ladies and gentlemen gaily chatting with the young members of the family and their little friends, assembled for the enjoyment of Old Christmas, as the 6th of January was called, or Bean Cake Day, or, as the French call it, Jour des Rois, commemorative of the visit of the Eastern Kings to Our Blessed Saviour. By a large table encircled with children of both sexes and all ages sat the old grandfather and his wife, dealing out slices of fine sugar-frosted cake, each recipient hoping that he or she might be the fortunate one to find pea or bean concealed in its sweet recesses, and thus become king or queen of the evening. All was merriment till a stifled sob and heavy sigh was heard, when old Count Z—– turning to his wife said: "Poor Mercedes, how she must suffer to-night. It would have been almost better if the children had been deprived of their cake rather than that the unhappy wife and mother should be reminded by this feast of the days of her lost golden-haired little darling, who always had such delight when he saw the big cake brought in." "Well," answered his aged lady, "it is sad enough for us to have had one dear son shot as he was, but she has double grief: not only the loss of her husband, but the uncertain fate of her son, that troubles her more than anything. But when I proposed that we would not celebrate les Rois this year she would not hear of it. She only made one request, namely: that any beggar asking charity to-day should have a slice of the cake, that some might be made happy for her dear child's sake, and also in hopes that some wayfarer may chance to bring tidings of her boy." And sadly the grandparents looked at their daughter-in-law as, in deepest black and the most profound melancholy on her countenance, she looked out of the window at some distance from them. Presently they saw her arise as she noticed a commotion in the hall, and the page entered, holding by the hand a small boy, dirty, tired, his hair bearing signs of great neglect and almost hiding a pale little face, bewildered at the sudden light and grand company. "Si, signor," said the valet, bringing forward the boy to the old gentleman. "Countess Mercedes ordered that all the poor who passed your gates to-day should be given a share of the great cake, and as I found this poor little one asleep on the door step I brought him for it."

       The old gentleman handed him a huge slice of cake, but, instead of taking it, the child glanced from one to the other, then darting off to where Countess Mercedes sat, he threw himself at her feet and burst into tears. Amazed at this conduct all rushed to the spot, and, after many inquiries as to the cause of this behavior, elicited the following answer: "Oh, excuse me, but this lady put me so in mind of my mamma, and that old gentleman and lady of my dear grandparents." Much interested, he began the narrative, but dimly remembered, of his father's death and his capture, when with frenzied excitement poor Countes M—– said, "Your name, quick, your name." "Carlos Z—–," he said, and uncovering the bag he showed his little velvet dress and ribbon, always kept as a means of identification by the kind Pietro. In an instant he was clasped in Countess M—–'s arms; yes, despite dirt and fatigue and a year's miserable absence, his mother recognized him at once. I leave you to imagine the transformation when a hot bath had soothed his tired limbs, handsome garments replacing rags, he returned to the dining hall and was proudly placed in the Bean King's seat. All did him homage, gladly yielding their own fancies to his slightest wish, so glad once more to welcome their favorite though long-lost companion. The recovery of her darling son aroused his mother from her melancholy. It restored her once more to happiness, and though she could never forget her dear husband when tempted to hide her grief, she consoled herself with the reflection that her husband had died without pain and in the discharge of his duty. Their sufferings were not in vain, for the return of Carlos enabled the authorities to find the hiding place of the bandits, who were all captured, and thus travellers could go on their way thereafter unmolested.

      

 

       About twenty years ago, a lady with her family moved, in the bleak month of May, into a house near Mount Pleasant, Quebec, a very short distance from the new Florence hotel. This street, nearing the St. John toll-gate, may well be called Mount Pleasant, as everywhere from the rear of the houses on the left hand going out is the view of the lovely heights of Charlesbourg and Lorette, with the mountains in the distance. It was most unfortunate that Mrs. C., as we will call her, should have been persuaded that, having given up her late residence and taken her present house, she was obliged to move, and against her better judgment, as her boys had the scarlet fever, though they were most warmly wrapped in blankets; she unfortunately made the move that proved so disastrous, her darling little H. caught cold. and, after a few weeks' illness, died in the new residence.

       Previous to this, however — in fact, from the first day of occupation — knockings were heard precisely similar to the sounds produced by tacking down carpets, and though these rappings continued for an unusual time, no regard was paid to them until the lapse of some weeks, when Mr. C., we will call him, said to his wife, "What in the world can be the cause of these raps; they cannot be putting down carpets forever next door, and do you notice what a hollow, groaning sound precedes the raps?" "Yes," Madame C. said, "I am beginning to think it very curious myself." However, all conjecture was soon lost in the absorbing grief caused by the death of their darling little Harry, and was only brought to notice again when Mrs. C. one day called her little house maid and asked her to sit with her little son D., recovering, but so deeply grieving over his brother's loss. But little Sarah said — "Oh! madame, dear, you know I would like to do anything for you, especially at this time, you are in such sorrow; but you know I can't go and stay in that room on account of the raps." "What raps?" Mrs. c. said, pretending perfect ignorance, not to frighten the girl unduly. "What do you mean?" "Sure, ma'am," was the answer, "myself and the cook and Miss Mary and the other children hears them all the time though we sleep upstairs, and nothing in the world would tempt me to stay five minutes in the room next that wall, though I would like to do anything for the little darling ill there."

       Here was a fine state of affairs, of which Mrs. C. understood the full importance. Unless an explanation were offered soon, her servants would probably leave, her children become frightened, and the family would be obliged to leave the house; but having been brought up by a very wise father to investigate matters before superstitiously ascribing to them a supernatural agency, she determined to sift the matter to the bottom, and, accordingly, called the next day on her neighbor, detailed all the circumstances, and asked if there was no possible explanation. After some little conversation, Mr. B. requested that a memorandum should be kept the next day of the exact time at which these sounds were heard, and what do you think, my young friends, was the result? It was found that the groaning sounds proceeded from the rusty hinges of a small iron door in the wall, and the raps from the knocking of the gentlemen's pipes as they emptied them into the said cupboard. And thus a cool inquiry elucidated facts that, unexplained, would perhaps have caused the house to be regarded as haunted, an illustration of how necessary thorough investigation is in such matters.

      

 

       I remember hearing many years ago an explanation of the custom as observed in some countries of sending around to friends Easter eggs, and I give it to you as I heard it.

       In one of the most mountainous parts of Switzerland there dwelt a poor widow, with two grandchildren. She had lived comfortably on her little farm during her husband's and son's life time; but when they and her daughter-in-law died, at her advanced age, the struggle for comfort and subsistence was a very hard one; however, with self-denial and courage she managed it till one bad season came, and it was with the utmost difficulty that she managed to keep the wolf hunger from her door, and when Easter came her small resources were exhausted, and she grieved sorely at the thought that her dear little Fritz and Gretchen would receive no present, as customary, on Easter day. However, on Easter eve, on going to the barn to look after her fowls, she found a dozen of new-laid eggs, and as they were a great treat at that season of the year, she conceived the idea of boiling them hard, coloring them, and hiding them in forsaken bird's nests in the garden for the children to have the pleasure of seeking and finding them. And now permit me to digress a moment, my friends, as I relate an extraordinary corroboration of the probability of mine being a true tale. My landlady, a German, hearing me speak of this, has just informed me that in her young days it was customary to hide these colored eggs in forsaken nests or fabricated ones for the children to seek, and also for confectioners and others to manufacture cakes with hollows filled up by colored eggs and sent as presents at Easter. Mrs. B. also informed me that there being little snow where she lived (the late Prince Consort's home), they sought, at Easter, blades of wet grass and wound them around the eggs, which colored them a beautiful green. To return to my tale, the old lady, on Easter morning, told the children to hunt for the eggs (a rare treat to them), and they could have them for breakfast. They did so; but, having satisfied their appetites, put a couple each in their pockets for future need.

       In the meanwhile a startling occurrence was proceeding some miles away destined to affect materially the old dame and her grandchildren. The lord of the manor, Count Z—–, who was also a general in the army, had been obliged to absent himself from home on military duty, but promised that nothing should prevent his joining his family at Easter. Accordingly, a fine dinner was in preparation; but hour after hour passed without any sign of the count's appearance, and dread surmises were abroad as to what might have happened to detain him, as he was notoriously punctual to his appointments. At last, when despair had almost taken possession of his wife, there was discerned coming towards the castle a sorry cavalcade: an officer, begrimed with dust, almost supported in his saddle by a small boy who held him up and a young girl leading an exhausted horse. This was the long-expected Count Z—–, who had been rescued from almost certain death in the following providential manner:—

       The children, Fritz and Gretchen, had started off on an afternoon's pleasuring, when, suddenly, from the brow of a cliff, Fritz noticed something glimmer on the glade under his feet. "Come here, Gretchen," he said, "what is that?" "Why it looks like a sword; and so it is!" said Gretchen. "But, oh! dear, don't you see the poor gentleman lying prostrate beside his horse. We must go to him instantly and try and give him some help." "Help," said Fritz. "What can we do?" "We don't know; but dear grandmother always says do what you can for others, and we can go and see at any rate." They went and found a prostrate horse, an officer lying almost insensible from pain and want of food. When the children approached and offered help, he said: "Move me a little and give me some wine out of the flask I always carry for such emergencies." After a generous draft he so revived, he said, "I think if I only had some food I could get home, if you could help me on my horse. I think only my ankle is sprained, not my leg broken." Thereupon, the children, feeling simultaneously the necessity of the sacrifice, and it was no slight one, as, the eggs parted with, there was nothing but black bread for supper, gave their precious possessions to the exhausted traveller, who, after eating, gained strength enough to proceed, as we see, on his journey. The great joy of seeing him for a time obliterated all thoughts of the children. But the count, recuperated by medical ministration, food and rest, at last inquired what had been done for his rescuers. Nothing; they had simply been forgotten. "Send for them instantly," said the count; "but for them I should have perished instead of being with you all." However, the countess then, for the first time, awaking to the fact of how deeply she was indebted to these children, sent a confidential servant and carriage to urge their immediate appearance. And as the trio was mournfully contemplating their prospective supper of black bread they found themselves bidden to a feast at the Castle, which culminated in the old dame's appointment as lodge-keeper to Count Z—–'s estate, with permission to pass some months in summer in her mountain home, and countess Z—–, it was said, in commemoration of her husband's rescue from death by the eggs given him by the children, gave a sum of money in perpetuity that hundreds of eggs should be distributed to the poor. Hence the custom of sending Easter eggs.

 

       In the outskirts of that well-known old city, Quebec, is a peculiarly pretty spot, Little River St. Charles, so called from the stream that runs between its banks. Here and there pretty cottages abound on one side the St. Charles Cemetery, opposite a cottage formerly occupied by a farmer who let it for summer residence to townspeople. About twenty years ago a gentleman, Mr. H., resided there with his wife and children. The back windows of the residence looked across at the marble monuments of the cemetery, which, gleaming through the thick foliage, looked like a garden of statuary, but to some weak-minded persons was viewed with (the cemetery was then a new one) terror, so suggestive of our grim and unconquerable foe — king death!

       One evening, a lovely one, just as darkness fell, Mrs. H. was looking out of the front window on a green lawn in front of the hall-door when she saw the little nursery maid standing beside her give a start. "What is it?" queried Madame H. "Ah! look, ma'am," with unmistakable signs of terror in her accent, "see that on the green!" On looking out, Mrs. H. perceived a figure dimly outlined, our very ideal of a spirit, indistinct, apparently an unearthly visitor, covered with a gauze veil. Mrs. H. rushed downstairs. Some one was playing some practical joke, and going out hastily on the green, she found no one. Returning to the nursery, she again beheld the figure; but a second attempt was no more successful than the first, and doubly convinced there was some trickery here, she raised the transparency in front of the dining-room window. She watched for some time and, seeing nothing, went up to reconnoitre; but there was nothing to be seen — the ghost was gone. Mrs. H. returned downstairs, pulled down the blind, lit the lamp, and was quietly reading, when, terrified to death, Marie, the little maid, rushed breathless into the room:

       "Ah! madame, the ghost again!" Re-entering the children's room, the phantom's presence was again discerned. Mrs. H. pondered over the matter; the appearance, on examination, appeared too flimsy for a real person. At last an idea occurred to Mrs. H., who put out the light in the dining room, then looked. There was nothing to be seen! Repeated trial proved the apparent ghostly manifestation was nothing more than the reflection of the light falling on the transparency in the window. (It was the well-known one of a tapering fountain, longer below than above, and whose reflection looked so like a figure.)

       This tale may suggest to too timid people the expediency of investigating matters thoroughly before coming to unreliable conclusions.